


Properly Spoiled

by philalethia



Series: Spoiled Kitty 'Verse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Plug, Cat Ears, Collars, Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Pet Play, Praise Kink, Tails
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 19:48:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1523387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philalethia/pseuds/philalethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock buys a few new accessories for their anniversary. John appreciates them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Properly Spoiled

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Properly Spoiled](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1594136) by [yasang](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yasang/pseuds/yasang)



> Although this is a standalone story, it could take place in the same universe as [The Sound That You Found For Me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1069210).
> 
> Written as an anniversary present for my girlfriend. ♥

Sherlock began with the tail. Just over a half metre in length, the tail itself was made of black fake fur, fluffy like a longhaired cat’s would be, and soft. It was attached at one end to a steel plug, meant to be inserted anally.

It slid in easily, although the metal was cold, even after the time Sherlock had spent cleaning and lubricating it. It felt awkward at first, the way all penetration did when he wasn’t aroused, but once it was in and he could see the tail when he glanced over his own shoulder, could feel it tickling his thighs, it felt better—good, in fact. It would feel even better when John returned from his shift at the surgery. Most things were better with John, after all.

The ears were next. Attached to a thin metal headband, the two triangular cat ears were made of pale-pink felt for the inner part and fluffy black faux fur that was similar, although not identical—Sherlock had had to purchase them from two different online shops—to the tail. Thankfully, the discrepancies in shade, lustre, and fur length were subtle enough that only someone as observant as he would notice. John certainly wouldn’t.

Sherlock spent several minutes peering at his reflection in the mirror above the mantel, arranging his hair so it covered the metal headband. He was less certain about the reception of the ears than he was the tail. Even though everything about John’s personality and previous sexual responses suggested he would like them, he had never actually expressed a desire to see Sherlock in cat ears. Not like the tail, which John had mentioned often—usually whilst he milked Sherlock’s prostate relentlessly, murmuring to Sherlock about how gorgeous he would look with a tail.

 _Well_ , he reasoned, _the ears are easy enough to remove_.

Once finished, he reached for the final accessory: a new collar. It was made of thick, plum-coloured leather, with pushpin-sized silver studs spaced evenly along the length and a large silver bell dangling from a D-ring at the centre.

The collar, Sherlock was certain, John would love. He was fond enough of Sherlock’s current one: a simple black leather band with an O-ring at the centre. The sound of the steel ring rattling against its handle alone reduced John to a tender, possessive embodiment of testosterone and oxytocin; Sherlock was held still and fucked just so John could listen to it. A proper bell would thrill him.

Aside from the tail, ears, and collar, Sherlock was nude, freshly and thoroughly showered, his mouth and teeth freshly and thoroughly cleaned. Prepared for virtually anything John should be inspired to do when he saw Sherlock.

While he waited for John to return, Sherlock lay on the sofa with his body curled tightly in foetal position, the closest he could get to a catlike ball, until he heard John’s slow but heavy footsteps climbing the stairs to the flat. As the front door opened, Sherlock raised his head.

John stared back, scanning Sherlock from head—fake ears, actually—to feet. The line of John’s shoulders said the day had been long, frustrating. The creases on his trousers said he’d spent a great deal of it sitting, and the ink smudges on his hands said he’d done a lot of quick writing.

Difficult patients, complicated nets of symptoms to unravel: he was tired. Might’ve preferred a small dinner and an early night over an evening of lengthy, kinky shagging.

But then John sucked in a sharp breath, and the tip of his tongue peeked out to wet his lips. He was interested— _very_ interested.

“Well,” John said softly, shutting the door behind him. “Hello there.”

He paused to take off his shoes, then his coat, and Sherlock used the time to roll onto the floor and crawl to him. As he moved, he became very, very aware of the plug inside him, his hole stretched to accommodate it, the long fur brushing the backs of his thighs. It felt… not natural, obviously, but… fitting, he supposed. Pleasant.

When he reached John’s legs, he grazed his flank against John’s knees, then settled on his haunches and gazed up at John with what should have been a suitably appealing plea for attention.

It worked. With a smile that seemed to light up his face and drain the exhaustion and frustration from his body, John bent down and sank his fingers into the tufts of hair just above Sherlock’s nape. Sherlock let his eyes flutter closed, sighing in pleasure. Strange, how such a small touch could affect him so strongly. Already he felt his thoughts begin to slow, flowing like thick honey.

John’s touch travelled up the back of his skull to the metal headband and then the cat ears. “Hmm. Tail, ears. Tilt your chin up for me.”

Without hesitation, Sherlock dropped his head back, turning his face to the ceiling and exposing the column of his throat. John’s hand lifted from his head, and then Sherlock felt a pressure along the collar, John’s finger following the length of the leather until he reached the bell. He flicked it gently, making it ring.

“Nice,” said John, sounding impressed. Pleasure fluttered through Sherlock’s core, leaving a lingering warmth. “All these new toys. What’s the occasion?”

Unsurprising, that John should have forgotten the significance of the date. Sherlock suspected he didn’t even know they _had_ an anniversary, much less when it was.

Such was the consequence of beginning a relationship outside the traditional manner—no insipid and outdated courtship rituals, just the introduction of sex and the cessation of interloping girlfriends. Sherlock had known the day of their first sexual encounter exactly what they were embarking on—thus, their anniversary—but John, who possessed far, far less advanced deductive abilities, had needed a bit longer to reach the same understanding.

But Sherlock said nothing—obviously, since cats didn’t speak—shifted to his hands and knees, and lifted his hips, inviting John to investigate the “toy” he’d left untouched, but John stayed stubbornly focused on his neck, dipping beneath the collar to stroke the skin there.

“Or has it just been too long?” John asked. His voice was pitched low, coming closer to the tender almost-cooing tone he used when he was fully in his _owner_ headspace, and Sherlock responded viscerally to it, letting out a quiet moan as desire began to coil tightly in his groin. “It has, hasn’t it?”

Sherlock stared up into John’s gentle expression, nearly panting as John stroked up his throat, trailed his fingertips along Sherlock’s jaw. “With the jewellery thefts and then that kidnapping mess, you haven’t been properly spoiled in weeks. And now look at you—such a gorgeous kitty.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together, so he didn’t embarrass himself by begging too soon. With one more smile, John stood, and Sherlock felt immediately lost, bereft of his touch.

“I need the loo,” John said. “Then I think I’m going to have a shower. Be a good boy and wait for me in the bedroom, yeah?”

*

John meant that he should wait in the bed. Sherlock knew this. But the distance between the bed and the bathroom seemed more significant than usual, so he lay on the floor just in front of the bathroom instead. He rested one palm against the frosted-glass door and watched the vague shape of John as he showered.

After John had finished, he approached the door, and Sherlock withdrew slightly just as it slid open, revealing John drying his hair with a towel draped over his shoulders. He was nude, his prick half-erect—from only the sight of Sherlock and the thought of what he was going to do to Sherlock.

 _Oh, yes_. Sherlock’s saliva production increased, and he heaved himself into a sitting position, tipped his chin up, eager to taste John’s cock and feel it swell to full hardness on his tongue.

To his disappointment, John knelt down, as though Sherlock hadn’t just expressed a clear willingness to worship his pretty cock.

“Impatient, are we?” John asked, and reached out to brush the fringe from Sherlock’s forehead. His fingers lingered over the headband, stroking back and forth over the metal, then crooked to scratch behind one of the cat ears.

Sherlock’s breath caught briefly, then flew out around a soft moan. _Ridiculous, ridiculous that such a small thing should affect you so much, they aren’t even_ _your_ real _ears_ , a tiny voice in his head said, but it was easy to ignore and growing smaller by the second.

“It’s all right,” John said, still scratching lightly. Sherlock arched up, butting his head into John’s hand. “I’m here now. Look at you, being such a sweet kitty. Go wait on the bed for me.”

After one last head-butt, Sherlock turned and crawled to the bed, the bell on his collar jingling the whole way. He could feel John’s gaze on his bottom, on the tail as it swung with each of Sherlock’s plodding motions, and he revelled in the attention, tried to add more of a sway to his hips to highlight his plugged arse even further.

The climb up the side of the bed wasn’t especially graceful on all fours, but he managed, then lay facedown in the centre, nestling his cock—erect by now, a pleasant heaviness between his legs—between his belly and the mattress. He turned his head to the side so he could watch John, who was staring back as he continued to dry himself with the towel.

“Good. Pillow under your hips, now.”

Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered. A pillow under his hips meant John wanted easier access to his hole. Clearly he needn’t have worried about John giving the ears more attention than the tail—he was planning to give nice, thorough attention to it shortly.

He did as John asked and eased one of the pillows beneath him until his bottom was raised slightly. The new position shifted the angle of the plug inside him. Neither a better nor worse angle than the one previously, just different, but it reminded Sherlock of being fucked. Something pushing into him, pinning him, how gloriously wrong it felt to be opened like that, to feel come and lube still dripping from him hours later.

He ground into the pillow, moaning weakly, and felt himself clench around the plug, his body trying to take it even deeper.

“Does that feel good?”

The bed shook as John climbed atop it. He smelled of his preferred brands of soap and shampoo, both cheap but acceptable, and Sherlock could feel the heat from his shower rising off his skin as John settled beside him.

“Mmm,” said Sherlock, keeping his voice deep and rumbly like a purr.

“Let me see?”

Sherlock raised his bum even higher and felt a hand on either of his arse cheeks, gently spreading them.

“Good boy,” John murmured, brushing one finger along the rim of Sherlock’s arse and then sweeping it over the top of the tail, making it sway. The fur skimmed Sherlock’s inner thighs, and his collar clinked as he squirmed. “God, you’re perfect.”

 _Oh, please, yes_. Sherlock’s blood sang, and his head felt light, floaty. He shuffled his knees farther apart and rubbed his cheek against the duvet, arching his back luxuriously. Then came a tug on the tail, and the plug slipped the slightest bit out.

“Ah!” he cried, followed shortly by a breathy “oh” as John let the plug sink back in.

“That’s it,” John said. “You lovely thing. Here, hold yourself open for me.”

Sherlock didn’t hesitate, just reached behind him and replaced John’s hands with his own, holding himself open for whatever John wanted.

A finger—a thumb, he thought—swiped from his arse to his perineum and testicles, then back to his hole. It lingered there, circling where Sherlock was stretched around the flared metal and applying the slightest bit of pressure, not enough to dip in alongside the plug but enough to make Sherlock think about it.

 _Oh, god_. Sherlock could take it, he thought. After all, the plug at its widest point wasn’t as thick as John’s prick, and he could take that easily enough. The plug plus John’s finger, John having to hold the tail out of the way so he could see Sherlock’s body opening for him—he wanted that. He wanted to feel stuffed full, John’s perfectly obedient pet.

“Shh,” John said, and Sherlock realised he was making a racket: one pitiful open-mouthed cry after another and his bell jingling ceaselessly as he rocked back into John’s touch—a veritable sex symphony. “Do you have any idea what you sound like? Or what you _look_ like?”

The mattress shifted as John adjusted his position, and then Sherlock felt John bending forwards over him, pressing a firm wet kiss to Sherlock’s tailbone.

“You’re the most stunning thing I’ve ever seen. You’re everything I’ve wanted, you are.”

John kissed him again. A little lower this time, so close to his arsehole, and Sherlock groaned, his arms beginning to tremble as he continued to hold himself open for John.

“Waiting for me with your ears and your tail and, Christ, that collar. I had plans for you then, you know. I was going to get you in here, take out your tail, and bugger you until you cried you wanted to come so badly.”

 _Yes_ , Sherlock thought, the images flashing so quickly through his mind that he felt dizzy. _Yes, that, please. Give me that, keep talking to me like that, and I’ll do anything_. He whimpered, squeezing his eyes closed.

“But now,” John said, straightening and withdrawing. Sherlock moaned at the loss. “Now I think you were _made_ for that tail. Weren’t you? I want you to wear it as long as you can stand it.”

John grasped the tail, and Sherlock moaned, preparing himself for another tug, maybe for John to use the tail to manoeuvre Sherlock where and how he wanted him. But this time, John only flipped it up, so that rather than hanging from his arse, it lay along his spine.

“There we go,” John murmured. “Stay right there.”

Then Sherlock felt a pressure against the plug. It took a moment to identify the cause.

It was the tip of John’s prick pressing against his arsehole, keeping the plug firmly rooted inside him and even pushing it in a touch deeper. Sherlock’s breath stuttered, and his eyes opened, stared unseeing at the wall as John rubbed the crown of his cock back and forth over the rim, jostling the tail with every pass.

Clarity came in a sudden rush, like water over Sherlock’s mind: John wanted to fuck him with the tail still in. Was imagining it right now, although he wouldn’t actually _do_ it. Sherlock wasn’t lubricated or stretched enough to take both a cock and a plug, and John would never risk hurting him. But he was thinking about it, wanting it.

And touching himself. Sherlock could hear John’s hand moving over the shaft while the head still teased at Sherlock’s arse. He was going to get himself off like this, hardly even touching Sherlock at all—satisfied by merely the sight and sound of Sherlock, more satisfied than even if he were to bury his cock in a slick, warm hole that was just waiting to be filled and fucked and used.

 _‘Everything I’ve ever wanted,’_ John had said. Sherlock whimpered, shoved his legs as wide as they would go, and wanted it all the more. For his arse to be so full he could feel the push of John’s long, thick cock even in his abdomen, for the tail to lurch and swing with every thrust as Sherlock was fucked into a whining, sweating, come-drenched mess.

“Stop that,” John grunted. “You’ll hurt yourself if you keep that up.”

Because Sherlock was arching off the pillow, trying to impale himself on at least the tip of John’s prick. He hadn’t even realised he was doing it until now. John ran one hand soothingly down Sherlock’s side, the other hand still wanking himself; Sherlock could hear the rhythmic _fwap fwap fwap_ of John’s cock in his fist.

“There,” John said as Sherlock forced himself to settle. “That’s my clever, perfect boy. You’re going to be a good kitty for me, aren’t you? Such a well-behaved little kitty you’ll earn yourself a nice reward?”

 _Please, oh_. Sherlock nodded frantically, stupidly, moaning helplessly. He closed his teeth around a mouthful of the duvet so he wouldn’t be tempted to beg with actual words. His fingers were stiff and twitching, digging into his skin as he struggled to keep his arse cheeks spread like John had asked. He wanted John to come on him—maybe even _in him_ , just a bit, if they could manage—leaving streaks of semen in the tail’s soft fur.

Sherlock had no sooner thought about it than it began to happen. John’s grunting fell to a low, desperate pitch, and then the warm first spurt of come landed just below his entrance and dripped to his perineum, then his testicles.

The second landed just above, in the plug-end of the tail, and dribbled down right over his arsehole, and Sherlock paid rather less attention after that, feeling himself clench and clutch at the plug inside him and imagining the startling picture of sluttishness he must’ve made then.

“That’s it,” John gasped. “Oh fuck, Sherlock. Look at you.”

 _Yes, look at me, please._ Sherlock’s own cock was swollen, aching, even leaking a little onto the pillow beneath him. He could feel the veins along the underside throbbing in time with his heartbeat, and he let out a sobbing moan with each pulse.

“Shhh.” John stroked his side again and bent over him so he could kiss the middle of Sherlock’s back. “It’s all right. You can let go now.” Gently, he pried Sherlock’s fingers away from his bottom. They felt like twigs attached to Sherlock’s palm, incapable of bending, but the sensation began to fade as John massaged them. “That’s it. Come here.”

John wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s chest and lifted. Sherlock scrambled off the pillow and onto his haunches, then fell back into John’s lap, his back against John’s chest. His collar jingled, its bell bobbing as he was moved. The metal headband, no longer fixed securely on his head, slid forwards until the ears hung awkwardly over his forehead.

But John, helpful lovely John, shoved the band and its attached ears back in place and smoothed Sherlock’s hair gently from his face, kissing the back of his neck. For his part, Sherlock simply let himself be moved, leaned gratefully back into John’s warmth, and let out a small “oh” as John closed the fingers of one hand around his prick, just below the glans.

“Thank you,” John said, burying his face in Sherlock’s hair. “You’ve been so patient. But it’s your turn now.”

Sherlock’s arms hung limply at his sides, his head lolling on John’s shoulder. He felt utterly boneless, hazy, pleasantly useless, as John began to stroke him. His prick twitched, dribbled a bit of precome that dripped over John’s knuckles.

“That’s it,” John said. “There we go. You can let go now. You’ve been so good for me. My perfect kitty.”

“Oh god,” Sherlock moaned, his voice deep and hoarse, as he began to come. He rocked into John’s grip mindlessly, wailing softly as he watched the come spurt out of his own prick, making a mess of the duvet.

John stroked him through it, kissed his hair, and murmured a tender “good boy” with each pulse of Sherlock’s cock.

*

John cleaned them both afterwards, even did a cursory clean of the duvet while Sherlock lay on his side and watched blearily. His limbs felt heavy and his mind foggy, his thoughts like indistinct shapes behind a curtain that he didn’t feel particularly inclined to pull back and peer behind.

So he stayed, enveloped in post-orgasm haziness, until John climbed on the bed beside him, coaxed him onto his front, and began to paw at his bum—or, more specifically, at the tail in his bum.

“What,” Sherlock said, shooting John what he hoped was a suitably affronted glance over his shoulder, “are you doing? You said I could wear it as long as I can stand it.”

And Sherlock was still very capable of standing it, which made John slowly easing the plug from his arsehole all the more baffling.

“Yes,” John said, with a long-suffering sigh, “and you can have it back in a tick. Just let me freshen up the lube a bit first so it doesn’t chafe.”

Satisfied, Sherlock folded his arms under his head and let himself doze. He surfaced briefly a moment later, moaning weakly and curling his toes in pleasure, as John guided the much, much slicker plug back inside him.

Then he surfaced again sometime later, when John lay beside him, throwing an arm on Sherlock’s back and petting the back of his head with a fond smile.

“Chinese all right for dinner?”

“Not hungry,” Sherlock said, arching up into the touch, loving the weight of John’s hand as it pressed against his scalp.

“Too bad. I know you didn’t eat breakfast, and I’m pretty sure you didn’t eat lunch either. So you don’t get a choice about dinner. You’re eating it.”

Sherlock lifted his head to protest.

“You’re eating it,” John repeated, his tone much sharper. “Or you won’t get your reward later.”

If the ears and tail had been real, Sherlock knew they would have perked up with interest. “What reward?”

John’s smile widened. “I guess you’ll just have to wait and see.”

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes, although it was mostly for show. He liked rewards. He’d even hold off on deducing what it was, just to give John the rare pleasure of being able to surprise him.

“Spoiled kitty,” John said, trailing his hand higher until his fingers were sinking into the hair just behind one of Sherlock’s cat ears. “My gorgeous, spoiled kitty.”

 _Perhaps a bit,_ Sherlock thought, and made a low, rumbling sound like a purr as John began to scratch.


End file.
